


A Dragon's Curse

by TheRealDanniX



Series: The Dragon of Kaer Morhen [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fix-It of Sorts, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, Kaer Morhen, Light Angst, M/M, Mid-Burn, Mild Smut, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Not Beta Read, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24130678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealDanniX/pseuds/TheRealDanniX
Summary: “Damn it!” Jaskier moaned. Geralt looked up to see the lute resting in his lap and the bard staring at his hands as though they had betrayed him. Blue eyes looked up from a pouting face. “Look at these!” Jaskier held his hands out, fingers splayed and wiggling. Geralt raised an eyebrow. “My nails, Geralt! They’re claws!” He pulled his hands back to in front of his face, pouting more. “I can’t play with claws!”“Hmm.” Geralt rolled his eyes and went back to mending his shirt. Jaskier continued bemoaning his new claws, carefully setting his lute back into its case. Later that night, they had settled in the same bedroll again, with Jaskier pressed as close as he could, burning into the Witcher’s skin. Geralt was almost asleep when Jaskier spoke.“It’s getting worse,” Jaskier muttered. His face was pressed into the Witcher’s neck so that Geralt could feel his breath and fangs as he spoke. “It feels like it’s always getting colder and the smoke.” His voice choked off, and he was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want this.” Geralt wrapped his arms around the dragon beside him, unable to ignore the painful desire to protect his bard.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg (Implied)
Series: The Dragon of Kaer Morhen [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754932
Comments: 75
Kudos: 830
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	A Dragon's Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Started making it.  
> Had a breakdown.  
> Bon appetite.
> 
> But really, I wanted to sleep, but instead, I wrote almost 14,000 words about Jaskier turning into a dragon and Geralt getting his head out of his ass. 
> 
> This is set directly after the dragon hunt, before Cintra. Most of the lore is gleaned from the show and the wiki pages so bear that in mind.  
> The dragon lore is mostly accurate, but I made a few changes.
> 
> Sorry in advance about the smut. I've never written smut before and I hope y'all like it. 
> 
> Drop a kudos or a comment and let me know what you thought.

Geralt had been an idiot and he knew it the second the words had left his mouth. He was sure of it when he returned to their campsite and saw no sign of his bard. It took far longer to work up the courage to seek him out, but he’s grateful he didn’t wait any longer. If he had, he may have been too late. Six weeks after that damn dragon hunt, he had been following Jaskier’s song. It had led him to a nameless town where the innkeeper had a message for him. The words had been lost on the Witcher, but the blood-stained lute had turned his sight red. It hadn’t been hard to find who took him. It only took two days to get from the inn to the abandoned looking tower where Jaskier was being kept. It took a disturbingly short amount of time to cut through the mercenaries in the tower to the lab where he found Jaskier tied to a chair. Truly, he lived up to his title that day. The Butcher carried the bard away from the carnage and back to Roach, who was waiting patiently, unbothered by the blood that stained his armor dark shades of red. Jaskier had barely reacted to his presence, which wasn’t surprising considering how strong the smell of poppies was. Clearly, he had been drugged continuously. Drugged, but not tortured.

“A small mercy,” the healer said when Geralt had forced his way in and laid the bard on her table demanding help. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue either. “He just needs to sleep it off and he should be fine. He likely won’t remember much of anything if he’s been drugged for as long as I think he has.” Geralt just hummed and reached for his coin purse. The healer shook her head. “No charge Witcher. I did nothing. Now take your troubles far from my door.” He took Jaskier into his arms again and carried him back to Roach. Jaskier would probably prefer an inn but, given what Geralt had done to the men who took his bard, they would be staying in the woods for the time being. He set up camp in a clearing far from the nearest settlements, close to a stream and plenty of game. They could wait there as long as they needed to.

It took Jaskier three days to wake up fully, only able to handle little bits of bread and water when he was partially lucid. When he finally looked at Geralt with clear eyes, it made the Witcher freeze. “Geralt,” he breathed. His voice was rough from disuse, barely there.

“You’re okay Jaskier,” Geralt said.

“Wha’ hap’ened?” Jaskier muttered trying and failing, to sit up.

“You were taken. I took you back,” Geralt growled. “I should never have sent you away.”

Jaskier nodded weakly. “Damn right,” he said. Then his eyes slipped closed again. He woke again a few hours later and was able to eat some of the rabbit the Witcher had caught. He didn’t talk much that night, but he was moving. The next morning, he seemed much more like himself. Still weak from being drugged for weeks but talking more and moving around. Two days after that, the pair were traveling again and the bard was as animated as ever, singing and rambling as they walked down the path. It was all so normal and familiar and everything the Witcher had missed the moment he started down the mountain. So lost in the warm feelings the bard brought, it took him longer than it should have to notice that there was something different about Jaskier. For a week after he noticed, he couldn’t pin it down to any one thing. Then, after a particularly good performance at the local tavern, Jaskier had slid into the seat next to him, pressing against his side. Geralt started and pulled back, frowning at the bard.

“Oh, come on Geralt. You haven’t shied away from that for years. Why is tonight any different?” Jaskier pouted. He snatched the ale from in front of the Witcher and gulped it down.

“You’re hot,” Geralt said dumbly.

Jaskier grinned impishly. He tilted his head slightly and leaned closer to Geralt again. “Am I, dear Witcher? Glad you finally noticed.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, ignoring the way his stomach flipped. “I meant you’re hot to the touch, Jaskier,” he sighed. “Are you sick?”

“I don’t think so,” he huffed, letting his smile fall. “I suppose we’ll know tomorrow.” He sat back in his seat, not trying to get close again. “If it bothers you, I’ll sleep on the floor tonight. Or you can, actually. If I am getting sick, I don’t think it would be very nice to be sleeping on a hard, wooden floor when we have a lovely bed as an option.” Bright blue eyes looked up at him expectantly.

“It doesn’t bother me,” the Witcher said after a long moment of silence. The bard smiled brightly and launched into himself into a rambling story about the last time he had been sick that Geralt mostly tuned out. That night, after they had settled in the bed, the bard pressed himself against the Witcher as he always had before. His skin was still hot, but it seemed like Jaskier couldn’t get warm enough, huddling impossibly closer as the night stretched on. When morning came, Jaskier claimed he felt fine. No aches or soreness that normally came with fever. Geralt made them stay another night, but the bard wasn’t sick. He just gave off heat like a fever. He didn’t even feel it, still seeking out warm places (including Geralt) whenever he could. It was a week before Geralt noticed anything else.

They were sitting by the fire while Geralt cooked their dinner. The bard had forgone his usual practice of caring for his lute in favor of warmth, sitting as close as he could without touching the flames as he’d done since they left the inn. Jaskier was unusually quiet that night. He took the offered food without a word, barely moving from his position near the fire. Frankly, it worried Geralt when the bard went silent. It always meant something was wrong. Golden eyes were fixed on Jaskier as he ate and that was when he noticed. The bard’s teeth were different. They were sharper, tore deeper into the meat. It almost looked like he had fangs. Geralt cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself. “Are you okay?” he asked. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to say, but he didn’t want to worry Jaskier with this new observation.

“I’m fine Geralt. Well, mostly. I think I may really be coming down with something because it’s the middle of fucking summer and I can’t seem to get warm. You say that I’m giving off enough heat to fuel a fire, but it must be passing by the part where it actually warms me up,” Jaskier pouted. It looked uncomfortable for the bard like his mouth didn’t want to or couldn’t make the shape properly anymore. Geralt resisted the urge to point out they were actually in a month into the autumn. Instead, he moved closer to the bard, as they would in the colder months just before parting for the winter. Jaskier leaned into him instinctively. His skin was hotter than the fire. “Thank you, Geralt.” He smiled up at the Witcher for a moment, catching his lip with his new teeth. Then he frowned and leaned away.

“Jaskier?” Geralt grunted. Jaskier didn’t respond. Instead, he ran his tongue over his teeth, looking distinctly concerned as he did it again and again. Then he stuck his fingers in his mouth feeling the too-sharp teeth that way.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, staring at his hand which had started bleeding once removed from his mouth. Frantic eyes found the witcher. “What the fuck happened to my teeth?” Geralt shrugged. “This is not one of those things you can answer without speaking Geralt. I have bloody fangs!” Animated as always, Jaskier slammed his hands into the ground. Unfortunately, as close to the fire as he was, that meant one hand went directly into the fire.

“Jaskier!” Geralt snapped. He pulled the bard away from the fire, snatching the offending hand in his own. The edge of his clothing was singed, but the musician’s hand was unhurt. Geralt turned the hand over, examining it with wide eyes. Jaskier tried to pull away but stopped when the wide-eyed gaze moved to his face.

“What? What is so fascinating with my hand? I would think the fangs would deserve more attention as they weren’t there this morning, but by all means, stare at my damn hand instead.” Jaskier glared at him.

“Your hand was in the fire, bard.”

“I think I would have noticed accidentally setting myself on fire. I mean, at least _that_ I have experience with.” Jaskier yanked his hand away again and this time Geralt let him. Something odd was happening to his bard. “Thankfully, those occasions occurred near a stream so really the only damage was to my wardrobe. Though I did earn a small burn on my calf when I accidentally stepped in a fire.” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “But I’m not really concerned about _that_. I have fangs, Witcher. Sharp fucking fangs.” Geralt nodded. “How?” Jaskier demanded.

“Could be a curse.”

“Geralt!”

“We should see if we can find a mage in the next time.”

“What am I to do until then? I could bite my damn tongue off with these things.” The bared gestured to his mouth.

“At least that would mean a bit of quiet,” Geralt snarked. Jaskier hit him in the shoulder harder than normal.

“I’m not laughing, Witcher.” He barred his teeth in a snarl and there was a surge of heat in Geralt’s stomach. A normal human would not have looked so damn attractive with teeth like that. Geralt absolutely did not think about it.

“It will be fine for a day. Just be careful.” Geralt looked away from the bard. Eventually, the other man settled down and found his place in front of the fire, pressed against the Witcher. He fell asleep there and Geralt didn’t have the heart to move him, comforted by the heat rolling off the other. The next day they went to find a mage as promised. The nearest town had one who was staying there for a while. Jaskier managed to convince a kind face to give them directions to her house and off they went. It looked like a small cottage on the outside, but the Witcher could feel magic radiating off it. It didn’t seem to matter what illusions the mage had placed when they knocked. When Yennefer of Vengerberg opened the door, it seemed to matter a great deal. She slammed the door in their faces. Jaskier shot him a look.

“Please tell me this isn’t the first time you’ve seen each other since the dragon hunt,” he said quietly. Geralt ignored him and knocked again. She opened the door glowering at him.

“I’m not in the mood for your apology today Witcher,” she hissed. She went to close the door again, but Jaskier stopped it with his hand.

“Yennefer, we aren’t here about that,” he said carefully, giving Geralt another look. “We think I may have been cursed.” She opened the door a bit more, looking at the bard intently.

“I don’t work for free Bard, and you can’t afford me.”

“Just a consult then. Please.” Jaskier was visibly deflated as he asked. Violet eyes widened slightly.

“Fine,” Yennefer grumbled after a moment. “It must be something interesting if _you_ are willing to come to me instead of going to the next town with a mage.” She let the door open fully and gestured for them to come in. “Sit.” She pointed to a chair next to a table filled with herbs and potions. Jaskier obeyed. The Witcher watched from the doorway, not feeling welcome in the sorceress’s home. “This won’t be a pleasant feeling.” She started placing a hand on the bard’s forehead only to recoil as though she had been burned. For all Geralt knew, she had been. He could handle higher temperatures than most humans and Jaskier ran very hot these days.

“Ah, sorry about that. Should have mentioned what exactly has been happening,” Jaskier said with a sheepish smile. She glared at him, gripping her hand close to her chest, but it faded when her eyes fixed on his teeth.

“This isn’t a curse,” she said. Her voice sounded odd as she backed away from Jaskier. “You must have pissed off the wrong person Bard.” She shook her head. If it had been any other person, Geralt might have thought she was pitying him.

Jaskier frowned. “You just said this wasn’t a curse.”

“It’s not,” she agreed, looking a little pale. “Even the worst curse can be undone given the proper conditions. This,” she gestured to Jaskier’s whole person, “is a mutation of sorts.” The blood drained from Jaskier’s face and his eyes got wide. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“What do you mean?” Geralt growled.

“Your songbird was mutated, Witcher,” Yennefer snapped, rounding on him. “And whoever did it likely knew what they were doing. I’d be willing to bet this won’t be the end of it. But it’s like your trials. It can’t be stopped. I’d suggest you take him somewhere safe and get the hell out of my house.” She grabbed the bard by his doublet and shoved him towards Geralt and the door.

“Yen!” A sharp voice came from farther in the house and the violet eyes sorceress froze. A second later, another mage emerged, with thick curly hair and kind eyes that fell immediately on Jaskier.

“Triss,” Geralt sighed. She nodded to Geralt. Then she reached out towards Jaskier, taking him by the sleeve and steering him back to the chair.

“Yen, I know you’re mad at Geralt, but that’s no reason not to help his bard,” Triss scolded. Yennefer rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

“It’s not like I hurt him,” she hissed. Triss glared at her a moment.

“You told the poor man someone mutated him then tried to kick him out without even trying to figure out how.” Triss turned her attention to Jaskier. “Now, Jaskier, hold still. I’m going to try to see what was done to you.” She reached towards him, but he jerked back.

“Uh, just so you know, my skin is very hot to the touch,” he said with none of his usual flare. Geralt frowned. Triss nodded, smiling kindly as she reached for him again. She flinched a bit when her palm pressed against the bard’s forehead but thankfully didn’t pull back. Jaskier tensed as Triss examined him with her magic. When she finally removed her hand, she had the same look of bewilderment that Yennefer had had when she noticed the teeth.

“Well, uh, I suppose you can be comforted that the mage who did this wasn’t mad at you,” she said gently. Jaskier’s eyes scanned her face, bitter fear mixing with his normally sweet scent as he was obviously not comforted by the information.

“But what did they do?” Jaskier breathed.

“Uh, well, it seems as though he turned you into a dragon.” Triss stepped back. Yennefer and Geralt stared at the bard, who looked rightfully shocked. “It may take a few more weeks for the full transformation. After that, there seemed to be a way you could change back and forth from dragon to human, but there’s no way to change you back to how you were. Not fully. I’m not sure what Geralt did to piss him off, but I’d suggest you find the mage who did this. He could explain more about what’s happening to you.”

That seemed to jumpstart the troubadour’s brain. “What Geralt… You mean the mage who did this was doing it to get to Geralt? How does turning me into a dragon do anything to Geralt?” Jaskier looked helplessly at the Witcher.

Geralt shrugged. “We’ll figure it out Jaskier. Come on.” He pulled Jaskier from the chair and back out onto the path. Jaskier fell into his rambling again as they left the town, though it was far more anxious than his normal chatter. Geralt tuned it out, thinking instead on when this could have happened and who could have done it. It had to have been done when Jaskier was taken a few weeks ago. But there had been no mage with the mercenaries Geralt had killed. It did explain why the bard hadn’t been tortured. Perhaps he could find something if they headed back towards the village where Geralt had gotten the message. The only thing that made him hesitate was the bard. Cleary the full transformation would be a slow process, but Jaskier already had fangs. When else could happen to him before he actually had a draconic form? Would it be enough to make him as much of a pariah as the Witcher?

The other option was to find somewhere to wait it out. There weren’t many places in the area that would be easy to hide a full-grown dragon, but it might be better than risking Jaskier in too many towns or villages. People tended to hate what they didn’t understand. A cold wind blew around them, and Jaskier pressed closer to Roach, shielding himself from the cold. That was somewhere they could go. They were far enough north that it would only take a week or two to get there. There was plenty of room for a dragon to hide and no threat of people seeing the bard. He’d give the man a choice of course, but Geralt had already decided. They set up camp for the night in a meadow, eating their jerky instead of hunting. Jaskier pressed himself against Geralt’s side, burning into him. The bard had fallen oddly quiet after they ate, staring into the small fire in front of them.

“What am I going to do, Geralt?” Jaskier muttered finally. Geralt shrugged before wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I can’t be a dragon. People hunt dragons. Sure, they are wonderfully beautiful creatures, but I have never once desired to one of them. I was perfectly content being a normal human bard. Now I’ve got teeth that could rip a deer apart.” He let out a dry laugh. “Why would someone do this?” He looked over at the Witcher. In the firelight, his eyes were even brighter than normal.

“Hmm.”

“I supposed you’re right. We’ll have to ask once we find that bloody mage.” He rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder, turning back to the fire. “You know, I was thinking that maybe we should wait for this to run its course before we went after the mage. After all, I’ve already got these damn teeth and give off enough heat to boil water. Who knows what else could happen before I actually turn into a dragon? I could grow scales or sprout wings or something.” He sighed. “The only problem is I have no clue where I could go to wait it out. I can’t go to Oxenfurt. I certainly can go back to Lettenhove. I suppose I could find a spot in the woods that’s secluded enough, but I’ve seen what people do when they think there’s a dragon and I do not want to be turning into a dragon _and_ fighting off reavers and dwarves.” The Witcher couldn’t help the way his stomach plummeted at the thought of others hunting Jaskier. He also couldn’t help the hurt that crawled in when he realized that Jaskier may not want him around during this.

“I know a place where you would be safe,” Geralt offered. “If you wanted.” Jaskier frowned looking at him again.

“Where?”

“Kaer Morhen.” Geralt actively kept himself from meeting Jaskier’s eyes. Especially when the bard pushed himself upright and out of Geralt’s grasp. The Witcher suppressed a shiver that definitely came from the loss of heat and not the fear that Jaskier would reject him.

“You-you’re serious? You’re asking me to Kaer Morhen? But won’t the other Witchers have a problem with it? I mean, I know I’m not everyone’s favorite kind of person. I know I’m a lot on a good day and this won’t be good days. Not from how Triss was talking about it. I thought, well, I thought that you would rather I do this on my own.”

Geralt forced himself to look at the Bard who had closed in on himself, staring at the ground. “Why would I do that?” Geralt sighed. He raised an eyebrow when Jaskier looked up at him. The Bard didn’t seem to have an answer. “You are welcome at Kaer Morhen.” There was very little warning, a slight shift in the air, before Jaskier threw himself at the Witcher, wrapping him in a hug that was incredibly tight. It knocked his breath away for several reasons. The sweet scent of the bard was all but shoved down his throat and it settled something in him, making him feel impossibly warm even when he was released.

“Thank you, Geralt.” Jaskier beamed at him. His fangs glinted in the firelight. He looked fucking beautiful.

“Hmm.” They settled into sleep a little after that, sharing a bedroll. Jaskier pressed himself into the Witcher, curled into him like a cat. His head rested on the older man’s chest, just over his heart. Geralt absently ran his fingers through the soft brown hair that was splayed across his chest. Even in his sleep, the bard wasn’t quiet, humming and muttering under his breath. Geralt watched the way his face reacted to whatever he was dreaming about. He felt a sharp tug in his chest and… oh. _Oh._ Shit. He had fallen for the bard. He had likely fallen years ago and just hadn’t noticed. It wouldn’t change anything. It couldn’t. The bard didn’t care for him that way. They were friends. He couldn’t risk losing someone so precious as his bard by asking for more.

In the morning they started towards the Witcher’s keep. When they stopped in the next town, Geralt sent a message ahead to Vesemir explaining the situation. It was still months before the other wolves would return for the winter, but the old Witcher was almost always there. Jaskier followed him eagerly chatting about what he knew of the other Witchers of Kaer Morhen. It seemed he was particularly eager to meet Eskel again. “Again?” Geralt asked.

“Oh yes. I met him the same year I met you actually. I doubt he’d remember me, but he’s the reason I actually approached you in Posada. I met him on the road, just after I left Oxenfurt. Mind you, I didn’t know he was a Witcher at first. He just seemed happy to have someone to talk to for a bit. I doubt I would have realized he was one if we hadn’t run into a pack of drowners. Granted, I didn’t know what they were at the time, just that they were trying to kill me.” Jaskier chuckled. “I was a bit naïve, but he was kind enough to travel with me until we reached the next town. I quite enjoyed our little chat.”

“You never told me that.”

“Haven’t I?” Jaskier looked over at him. “I’m sure I have. Maybe you just weren’t listening.” He smirked and wiggled his eyebrows. “I know you tune me out when I ramble. Eskel did too, but I was even worse when I was younger, so I don’t really blame him. As I said, it was one trip with him, and I know it was him because he had a wolf medallion like yours and a beautiful array of scars on his face, like marble. He wouldn’t call them beautiful, I know, but they were. Well, are, I suppose.” He shrugged. “He seemed nice, but I’m glad I travel with you instead, my dear White Wolf.” He smirked again then danced off into the crowded market with his lute, beginning to play and leaving a confused Witcher staring after him. He laid out a hat, which Geralt had never seen the man wear, and sang out as loud as he could, performing like he would if he were in a court. Before letting himself watch, Geralt made a note to ask Eskel about it when he saw him next. It turned out he didn’t have long to wait. They settled into the tavern that night and Eskel arrived half-way through Jaskier’s set. He wore red armor and had several scars on his face, one cutting through his upper lip. His brown hair was shaggy, framing his face. His yellow eyes fixed on the bard first, frowning when Jaskier winked at him.

Even from his dark corner of the tavern, Geralt saw his brother muttered, “What the fuck?” He hid his smirk in his ale, waiting to be noticed. The other Witcher was so focused on the bard, who was flashing him nearly as many smiles as he usually did Geralt, that it was several songs before he noticed the White Wolf brooding. “Geralt!” Eskel exclaimed sitting down across from him. “I take it that’s your bard.” He nodded to Jaskier who started playing _Toss A Coin_ with a wicked grin.

“Unfortunately,” Geralt groaned, but he couldn’t keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up. Eskel grinned at him.

“Seems like a real hardship, having someone singing your praises all over the continent.” Eskel rolled his eyes. “Especially a pretty young thing like that.” Geralt glared at him, and he held his hands up in submission. “Just saying.”

“You met him first,” Geralt huffed eventually. Eskel raised an eyebrow.

“When?”

“Twenty years ago, outside Oxenfurt according to him.” Geralt watched as his brother’s face twisted with realization.

“That was him?” Eskel stared back at the bard. “Damn. It was. Freaked me the hell out. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, but I wasn’t about to forget the idiot who wasn’t scared of a witcher. He looks almost the same.”

“You can ask him about his skincare when he comes over here.” Geralt sighed knowing the set would be over soon. “Where are you headed?”

“Nowhere. Just finished a contract for selkimore here. You?” Eskel took a swallow of his own ale.

“Taking the bard to Kaer Morhen.”

“Bit early to be heading back.” He raised an eyebrow. Geralt nodded. “Something going on?” Before Geralt could reply, Jaskier slid into the seat beside him taking Geralt’s ale and gulping it down.

He wrinkled his nose. “Not as bad as normal.” Then he smiled over at Eskel. “It’s nice to see you again, my friend. I doubt you remember me, but you saved my life in my youth. I’m...”

“I know who you are,” Eskel chuckled cutting him off. “Jaskier, the White Wolf’s bard. The man who doesn’t fear witchers.” Eskel smiled back when Jaskier beamed at him. His smile faltered when he noticed the teeth. Jaskier immediately dropped his smile and pressed his burning body closer to Geralt, tensing like a spring. It made Geralt a little proud that the bard did actually possess some form of self-preservation. Even if his anxiety was misplaced. “Nice teeth.”

“Ah, well, thank you I suppose,” Jaskier muttered. Geralt glared at his brother.

“A mage did something that’s turning him into a dragon,” Geralt explained.

“So, you’re taking him to Kaer Morhen to get the old wolf to undo it?” Eskel tilted his head frowning.

“The mages we talked to about it said it couldn’t be undone. Like your Witcher trials,” Jaskier said. He was a little less tense. “A mutation.” Eskel eyed Jaskier a little before he nodded.

“Then I guess a Witcher’s keep is the place to go through it,” Eskel declared. Jaskier smiled gently, making sure not to show his teeth.

“Couldn’t agree more,” the bard said. “It was nice seeing you, my friend, but I think I should go on to bed and leave you two to your witchery discussions.” Jaskier pried himself from Geralt’s side and mimed a bow to the witchers. Then he disappeared up the stairs, two sets of golden eyes fixed on him.

“Who’d the bard piss off to get something like that done to him?” Eskel muttered, shaking his head.

“He didn’t. The mage was trying to hurt me,” Geralt grumbled back.

“I’m sure he paid dearly for hurting the White Wolf’s bard.” Eskel’s tone was even, but his eyes were dark. They both knew what it was to be mutated into a monster, to have the choice taken from them.

“He will.”

“You haven’t found him?”

“Jaskier takes priority.”

“Tell me what you know, and I’ll take care of it. Gods know that bard has done plenty for Witchers. ‘Bout time we do something for him.” Eskel smiled, but it was closer to baring his teeth. Geralt nodded and explained what he knew. Eskel left that night. In the morning, Geralt and Jaskier resumed their journey to Kaer Morhen. Two days later, it seemed that they had made the right choice in trying to get Jaskier away from people. They had just arrived in a town and were heading towards the inn. It was clear to the Witcher that he was not welcome in the town from the glares and mumblings. The innkeeper met them at the door.

“We don’t serve your kind here, Witcher,” the innkeeper snapped. Then he spat at Geralt’s feet. Jaskier’s temperature spiked.

“You would if you needed him,” Jaskier growled. Geralt took gripped his shoulder, pulling him closer, knowing the bard would go on if he didn’t, making it worse.

“We don’t need no mutant scum in our town,” the innkeeper sneered. Jaskier jerked forward, but Geralt held him in place with more difficulty than normal. “Leave.” Geralt tugged Jaskier back towards Roach, forcing them out of the town. Jaskier literally burned in his grasp, but thankfully had fallen silent. Someone threw a stone, hitting Geralt in the back. The Witcher kept moving. Once they were safely out of the town limits, Jaskier pulled away and began ranting. It was a fairly normal occurrence, so Geralt knew better than to try and calm the bard down before he was done. He let Jaskier rant as they walked until he smelled smoke.

“I just don’t understand how people who know they may need you someday, sooner rather than later in a town that small, can behave that way. I don’t understand how they can be so absolutely rude. And don’t think I didn’t notice that one of them threw a rock at you! Honestly, Geralt, the nerve,” Jaskier huffed. Smoke curled out of the sides of his mouth and puffed out of his nose when he finally stopped talking. Geralt raised an eyebrow when Jaskier met his gaze.

“You’re smoking,” Geralt said. Jaskier huffed again, then yelped when he noticed the smoke coming from his own nostrils. Geralt couldn’t hide his smirk when blue eyes crossed trying to see the smoke better.

“Shit,” the bard exclaimed. More smoke came out of his mouth. “How am I supposed to sing I’m blowing smoke every time I breathe? It’s bad enough that my skin is on fire, but now my throat is too.”

“There is no actual fire yet.”

“Yes, thank you, Geralt. It’s the ‘yet’ that’s bugging me.” Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “What else is going to happen before this mutation crap is done? Claws? Scales?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed.

“I’m just asking Geralt. I’m a bard. How long do I have before I can’t play my lute because I’d burn it to ash? How long before even _you_ can’t touch me?” Smoke curled from his lips, looking rather intimidating as it twisted around his fangs. Geralt pushed down the overwhelming urge to kiss the smoke away.

“We’ll figure it out Jaskier,” he said instead, looking away and urging Roach on. As it turns out, it was only three days later when Jaskier decided he could no longer risk playing his lute, though it wasn’t because of the heat. They were camping again after Geralt decided they couldn’t risk towns with Jaskier huffing smoke whenever he was irritated or excited. Jaskier was caring for his lute when Geralt heard the sound of something scratching wood.

“Damn it!” Jaskier moaned. Geralt looked up to see the lute resting in his lap and the bard staring at his hands as though they had betrayed him. Blue eyes looked up from a pouting face. “Look at these!” Jaskier held his hands out, fingers splayed and wiggling. Geralt raised an eyebrow. “My nails, Geralt! They’re claws!” He pulled his hands back to in front of his face, pouting more. “I can’t play with claws!”

“Hmm.” Geralt rolled his eyes and went back to mending his shirt. Jaskier continued bemoaning his new claws, carefully setting his lute back into its case. Later that night, they had settled in the same bedroll again, with Jaskier pressed as close as he could, burning into the Witcher’s skin. Geralt was almost asleep when Jaskier spoke.

“It’s getting worse,” Jaskier muttered. His face was pressed into the Witcher’s neck so that Geralt could feel his breath and fangs as he spoke. “It feels like it’s always getting colder and the smoke.” His voice choked off, and he was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want this.” Geralt wrapped his arms around the dragon beside him, unable to ignore the painful desire to protect his bard.

“I know Jaskier,” Geralt muttered rubbing small circles onto the other’s back. “I know.” The next day, he got to see Jaskier’s new claws in action. It shouldn’t have been a problem, but people are idiots. There was a group of bandits that decided to ambush them while Geralt was hunting for their dinner and Jaskier was alone at camp. The White Wolf was alerted to the attack by a roar that turned his stomach to ice. It was clearly Jaskier, though he’d never heard the bard make that noise before. He ran back to the camp and saw two bandits circling his bard who had blood on his face and dripping down his chin. It took a heart-stopping moment to register that the blood wasn’t Jaskier’s. On the edge of the camp was the body of a third bandit with a ragged bloody hole on his neck. Jaskier scratched at one of the other bandits, cutting their face in jagged lines. Geralt moved quickly, slicing through them before they even knew he was there. Jaskier looked at him, breathing heavily and giving off more heat than normal.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed. His eyes fell to his hands, covered in blood, then to the bodies. “Oh my gods, Geralt.” He covered his mouth, backing away from the witcher. “I ripped his throat out. With my teeth.” The bard paled, turning suddenly and emptying the contents of his stomach. It took a while to calm him down, and afterward, he was all but silent. Geralt packed their camp and started them down the road. He wanted to let Jaskier ride Roach, but the bard refused, not offering any explanation. They walked until the moon was high in the sky. Jaskier set up his bedroll for the first time since the transformation had started, placing it as far from Geralt as he dared. Geralt tried to share what was left of their jerky, but the bard didn’t eat it. He was still covered in the blood from the bandits. Geralt hated how Jaskier was acting, even if he understood it. Maybe explaining that would help.

“Jaskier,” he started. Blue eyes looked up, reflecting in the moonlight like crystals. “I know this is not easy.” Jaskier raised an eyebrow, frowning. “It’s—hard to be in a body that is not the one you know.” Geralt’s words were halting, but they were the only way he could help his ~~love~~ friend. Jaskier lived for words. “After the mutations, I, I was much how you are now. I was different from how I remembered myself to be. Different even from my brothers. There were too many teeth in my mouth. My body was too big. My—even my hair was different. It took a long time to…adjust to how I am now. At first—at first, I was scared of what I could do.”

“How did you get over it?” Jaskier’s voice was quiet, but they were the first words he’d spoken in hours and it was the most wonderful sound to the Witcher’s ears.

“I realized that I couldn’t change what I am. That—that I could protect my brothers. That I wasn’t really alone.” Geralt tried to meet Jaskier’s gaze even though the other likely wouldn’t be able to see it. A gentle smile greeted him.

“Thank you, Geralt.”

“Hmm.” Geralt looked away, laying out his own bedroll. The bard got up and dragged his bedroll over to Geralt. “Go to sleep bard,” Geralt sighed, laying down. His heart skipped a beat when Jaskier pressed against him, falling asleep nearly immediately. The Witcher smiled fondly, pulling the bard closer, feeling content. They were able to travel in relative calm after that, reaching Kaer Morhen in just over a week, before anything else could change. At least, before anything easily noticeable. Vesemir greeted them with a stoic frown.

“Geralt,” Vesemir said. Geralt nodded. “Bard, take care of the horse. I need a word with my pup.” Jaskier looked between the two witchers before silently taking Roach to the stable Vesemir was pointing to. When he was out of earshot, the old wolf glared at Geralt. “How was this able to happen?”

“I made a mistake,” Geralt said. He looked at the ground, feeling small despite being several inches taller than his mentor.

“And he has paid for it. What of the one who did this to him?”

“Eskel is going after the mage. I had to take care of Jaskier first.”

“Do you understand what this means, boy?” Vesemir growled. “You are the cause of the bard’s fate. He is your responsibility now.”

“He always was,” Geralt growled back, meeting the older man’s eyes. The old wolf grimaced, realization spreading across his face.

“You may be the one he traveled with, but all witchers owe him a debt, Geralt. He’s done much to ease our way. You care for him. Perhaps in a way that the rest of us cannot. That only means you have more to lose when he is hurt. As he is now. He is your responsibility. Take care of him.” A fierce warning laid in the words. “We will do what we can, but it falls on your shoulders.” Vesemir rested a hand on Geralt’s shoulder for a moment before turning back to the keep, disappearing inside. Geralt went to the stable where Jaskier had already untacked the mare and was carefully brushing her. His eyes lit up when he noticed his witcher.

“Ah, Geralt! All done with your little reunion?” Jaskier smiled. Geralt nodded. “Good! Perhaps you should take over caring for our lovely lady? I don’t want to risk scratching her or scaring her from how hot my hands are.” He held out the brush to Geralt, careful to keep his palm flat, claws as out of the way as possible. When Geralt took the brush, the bard turned back to their stuff. “You know, I think I may be getting stronger. Her saddle used to be fairly difficult to lift, but it doesn’t feel like it anymore. It’s odd, but I suppose it makes sense. After all, dragons are big, strong creatures. It would make sense they’d be strong in their human forms too. Er, our human forms.” Jaskier froze for a moment. “I should probably get used to the idea that I’m not human anymore. Not really.”

“Neither am I,” Geralt muttered.

“I suppose not,” Jaskier chuckled. “We’ll be more alike than ever once this is over. Do you think that I’ve also got the life span of a dragon? I mean, not to complain, but if all I’ve got is the body without the long life, I don’t really think that’s fair.” Jaskier kept talking, but Geralt’s brain stalled. If Jaskier now had the same lifespan of a dragon, that meant that Geralt wouldn’t lose him as he had always feared. It meant that they could travel together for longer than the Witcher had ever hoped. Instead of another decade, they could have another century by each other’s side. That thought alone made it harder to ignore the warmth that Jaskier’s presence brought to his life. Harder to keep from acting on the urge to pull the bard into his arms and kiss him. “Geralt?” Jaskier snapped his fingers in front of Geralt’s face, grimacing when a claw dug into his skin. “Are you with me, dear Witcher? You sort of stopped moving.” Jaskier held up the brush that Geralt had apparently dropped in one hand.

“I’m fine,” Geralt growled, snatching the brush away and turning back to Roach. The mare gave him a knowing look, bumping her head against his chest when he grimaced. He saw Jaskier shrug out of the corner of his eye before turning back to their packs and resuming his rambling. This time, thankfully, focused on what he thought life at the keep would be like. When they finally made it inside and had settled into their rooms, Jaskier was already shivering. Vesemir handed him a bowl of stew with a frown.

“The cold has not set it yet, Bard. You may be in for a long winter,” Vesemir mused.

Jaskier grinned. “Perhaps, but there’s not much I can do about it. I’ve been cold since this whole thing started. Just can’t seem to get warm no matter what I do, even though to everyone else, I’m burning up.” He pulled the cloak he was wearing tighter around himself before tucking into the stew.

“Most dragons keep their eggs warm by placing them in a fire of the parents’ making. Perhaps you are cold because you do not have that.” The old wolf looked pointedly at Geralt, who was doing his best not to meet his mentor’s gaze.

“Perhaps,” Jaskier ceded, grin fading, “but I don’t particularly want to try sitting in a fire. I’m not quite cold enough for that.” He took another bite of the stew. “May I ask you a question, Vesemir?” The old witcher seemed startled when the bard used his name. Jaskier mistook the silence as a cue to keep talking, as usual. “Were you involved in the mutations before the attack? You don’t have to answer, of course. I know that it’s a bit of bad topic and I’m sure it brings back some things you’d rather leave buried. I just wondered because if you used to help the young witchers through their mutations, you may be able to help me a bit through mine.” Jaskier gulped, sinking into his seat (and, incidentally, Geralt who was sitting beside him).

Vesemir nodded grimly. “You are right that it is a painful topic, but I do not fault you for wondering. Not when it may ease your own process. Unfortunately, I doubt I could be much help to you bard. I was not involved in the mutations. I only taught them how to fight. After the attack, I cared for those who remained, but I never had to help a pup through the mutations.”

Jaskier nodded. “Then I won’t ask that of you. You’ve been through enough as it is.” Jaskier went back to his meal. The old wolf just looked at him, seeming to be at a loss for words. Geralt knew that feeling well. Jaskier had a talent for surprising Witchers. The bard resumed his ramblings a little later, sharing stories of their travels with Vesemir, who Geralt was certain wasn’t actually listening. Jaskier went to his room eventually, leaving the two wolves to themselves in the main hall. During the winter, it was often silent once night had fallen on the keep. Especially without Lambert and Eskel, but it seemed Vesemir was not done talking for the night.

“You chose a good companion,” Vesemir said. He gestured to the spot Jaskier had vacated not long ago. Geralt hummed his agreement. “The bard knows you well. I did not expect him to be so…careful with his words.”

“He’s very good with words. They are his swords, and he knows them well,” Geralt explained. His eyes drifted to the stairs that would lead to where Jaskier was likely already asleep.

Vesemir nodded. “Tell me your mistake, boy.” There was a protective edge in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Geralt let himself sigh. Even if Jaskier had seemingly let go of the words he’d spewed on the mountain, Vesemir would certainly not be as forgiving.

“I had sent him away with hurtful words. He was alone when others sought him out to get revenge on me.”

“Stupid pup,” Vesemir scolded. He glared at Geralt. “Did you fix the problems you could?” Geralt nodded. “Good. Do not hurt him again.” The two witchers fell into silence for a while, before the old wolf started talking about. “What do you know of dragons, boy?”

“They’re strong creatures. Prideful. Protective. Strong scales. Green dragons are the most common. Then red. The black. Gold are the rarest and can walk as humans.”

“Others can walk as humans too,” Vesemir corrected. “Most choose not to. It is harder to protect their hoard and their mate as a human. Dragons, much like wolves, form packs of their family. For them, family is life. Dragons also mate for life, like wolves.” Vesemir rose from his seat and looked at his student. “I can see that you care deeply for your bard, Geralt. Denying it will only hurt you both.” Then Vesemir went to his room. Geralt slowly walked up the stairs to his own room. As he passed Jaskier’s room, the door opened. Jaskier started when he saw his witcher, then a deep blush spread across his face.

“I thought you were asleep,” Geralt said when it became clear that the other man was too flustered to talk. He was wrapped in several furs that shifted as he did.

“Uh, well, Geralt, I was actually having trouble getting to sleep. I thought, well, I was going to ask if, maybe, I could sleep with you. It’s…warmer.” Jaskier fixed his eyes on the floor. The blush spread to the bard’s ears making him look even more adorable.

“Come on Jaskier,” Geralt sighed. He started down the hallway, followed quickly by his bard. Geralt’s room in the keep was the same one he’d had for decades. He let Jaskier settle on the bed while he changed into his bedclothes, grateful that he could finally rest a little more peacefully. When he turned back to the bed, Jaskier had curled up, wrapped in several furs, already mostly asleep. Geralt wrapped himself around the bard, prying the furs away to be able to press as close as possible. Jaskier relaxed the rest of the way, pressing his face into the Witcher’s chest with a contented noise that sounded a bit like a purr. It was too quick for even Geralt to hear properly, but it made his heart speed up. As he let the dragon’s heat seep into him, Geralt decided that Vesemir was right. Now he just had to do something about it.

Geralt woke up to an empty bed and the sun streaming through the window. He found the bard already in the kitchen, chatting at Vesemir and still wrapped in a couple furs. Jaskier smiled broadly, fangs and all, when he saw Geralt. Heat bubbled in the Witcher’s stomach. If he had been able to, he would have been blushing. Especially when Vesemir gave him a knowing look and excused himself. “How are you this morning Geralt?” Jaskier said. He held out an apple and a chunk of bread. “I slept wonderfully. Who knew that witchers had such comfortable beds?” He chuckled. “Now, I know you just got up, and I do hate to bother you, but please tell me that you lot have somewhere to bathe here? And don’t give me that look! I know you, and as much as you enjoy baths, you are also walked around with nekker guts in your hair for over a week.”

“I’ll show you to the bath after I eat,” Geralt mumbled, taking a bite of the bread.

“You’ll do more than show me where they are,” Jaskier declared. “We haven’t had a proper bath in weeks. You’ll be joining me in getting rid of the stench of the road.” Geralt rolled his eyes but found it hard to suppress the fond smirk that formed on his face. “And I hope your baths are warm because I don’t think I can handle cold water again after that river from a week ago.”

“Even if the water was cold when you got it, it’ll be boiling by the time you’re done.” Geralt raised his eyebrow. The bard feigned offense, slapping his shoulder but smiling the whole time. A little while later, the witcher led him down to the hot springs beneath the keep. Jaskier let out a little gasp when he saw the steamy pools, dropping the furs from his shoulders. Geralt watched as the bard shed his clothing leaving a trail to the nearest pool. He had always admired the bard’s body. The way he was deceptively muscular under his colorful doublets. The graceful nature of his long limbs as he moved. The thick patch of curly brown hair that decorated his chest. Now though, the normally pale skin was red as though irritated. Small patches of skin were peeling away, being replaced by smaller scales. Jaskier let out an ungodly moan as he sank into the warm water, which steamed more around him. Geralt shook his head at the expression of pure bliss that crossed his bard's face, wishing to have been the cause of it. After a moment, bright blue eyes opened and fixed on Geralt.

“Come on, my dear Witcher. You need this as much as I do.” Jaskier sank further into the water until his chin was barely above it. Geralt did as he was bid. He couldn’t really refuse Jaskier much of anything. He scooped up a rag and one of the bard’s weaker smelling soaps before allowing himself to sink into the water with him. Jaskier reached for the rag, but Geralt stopped him.

“Can I?” Geralt managed. Jaskier’s eyes were wide as he nodded and let the witcher scrub the dirt from his skin. Every brush of callused hands against soft skin sent a jolt of heat through the wolf unrelated to the heat rolling off the bard. Jaskier relaxed under his touch, almost melting, another gentle noise like a purr slipping out. At the noise, Jaskier pulled away slightly.

“Geralt,” Jaskier started, breathless. Geralt could hear his heartbeat speeding. Jaskier turned to face his Witcher, carefully straddling the bigger man’s hips in a way that couldn’t be misinterpreted. He took a deep breath and tried to speak again. “Geralt, if I’m reading this wrong…” Jaskier trailed off, letting one clawed hand rest against the scarred chest in front of him. Geralt just watched him, unable to form a thought clear enough to put into words. He ran his hand over the bard’s hip, feeling the beginnings of scales there burning under his touch. Jaskier leaned closer until their breath mingled.

Geralt could smell the smoke on his breath, mixing with the bard’s own smell of buttercups, meadow grass, and incense (a recent addition to the familiar smell). Unable to hold himself back, the Witcher closed the distance, bringing his other hand to the bard’s neck and pressing their lips together. Their kiss was slow, filled with the years of wanting and longing. Jaskier talented tongue explored Geralt’s mouth, sometimes twisting with Geralt’s own tongue in increasingly obscene ways. Jaskier was the first to pull back, gasping for air. He let his head fall onto Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher buried his face in the bard’s exposed neck, breathing in the scent there, now mixing with the sharp scent of arousal.

“Not getting it wrong,” Geralt mumbled. He pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder blade causing the dragon to shudder.

“Good.” Jaskier’s voice was still breathless. Geralt trailed kisses, moving up his bard’s neck, loving how Jaskier leaned his head back to let him. “And if this is just pity…” He trailed off again, the sounds lost as Geralt kissed his soft lips again. Geralt pressed his hands against his hips, pulling the bard closer, rubbing their erect cocks together in the movement. Jaskier’s hands gripped his shoulders, claws digging in slightly.

“Not pity,” Geralt murmured in between kisses. The bard’s skin burned against his own as Jaskier ground against him.

“Then get on with it, Witcher,” Jaskier demanded pulling back far enough to meet his eyes. A growl slipped from his lips unbidden. Jaskier chuckled at the predatory noise, surging to the edge of the pool and grabbing his trousers. He pulled a small bottle of oil from the pocket and tossed it to Geralt. His tongue darted across his lips and Geralt growled again, tugging his bard close. “Well?” Jaskier smirked, flashing his teeth, sending another surge of heat through the witcher. Geralt covered his fingers with oil before sliding them into his bard, one at a time opening him up. Jaskier arched his back, moaning and mumbling and begging before Geralt pressed the tip of his cock in. He griped the scale-covered hips tightly and pressed in further. Jaskier yelps, claws digging into the witcher’s shoulders, drawing blood. The witcher is nearly methodical as he eases the musician down.

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier groaned. His legs wrapped around Geralt, forcing the dick in deeper. Jaskier gasped, eyes rolled back in his head, face flushed in bliss. When his breath returned, the bard fixed the witcher with an intense stare. _“Move,”_ he ordered. Geralt could only comply. He buried his nose in the dragon’s neck, kissing bruises as the bard ground into his thrusts. He nipped at the soft skin, tasting the heat and smoke and incense. He’s not sure how long they’re in the baths, but by the time they return to the upper levels of the keep, both men have come several times. Jaskier was sporting several bruised love marks and a few bite marks on his neck. Geralt could feel the lines of scratches along back from the bard’s claws. Vesemir just looked at them knowingly, before offering to give Jaskier a tour of the keep. Jaskier flushed a dark shade of red before agreeing, fully aware of the strength of a Witcher’s senses. Geralt smirked as the old wolf guided him deeper into the keep.

Over the course of the next week, there are several discussions of feelings and several more moments intertwined together. There are also more scales forming. It’s easy for Geralt to keep track of their progress spending so long tracing over his bard’s body. The scales got harder and clearer, shimmering a gold so pale it’s almost white. Geralt had also noticed two raised lines of scales on either side of the bard’s spine, likely where wings were starting to form. Jaskier spent whatever time he wasn’t in his Witcher’s arms curled near the main fireplace wrapped in several furs. He didn’t have the energy for much else, sleeping longer every day. Geralt spent most of that time helping Vesemir get the keep ready for the coming winter, making sure their supplies are stocked to accommodate the appetite of a dragon as well as four witchers. The air was starting to get truly cold when Eskel arrived, Lambert in tow. Geralt had just left the stables where he had been tending Roach. The brothers embraced, shoving and teasing each other a few minutes before Lambert grinned wickedly at Geralt

“I heard you didn’t come alone this year,” Lambert jeered. “What exactly did your little bird get into, Geralt?”

Eskel shoved the youngest witcher hard. “Leave it Lambert,” he snapped, a warning in his eyes.

Which Lambert ignored. “Esk was telling me how some mage went after the bird ‘cause of you on the hike up here. You must have screwed someone over bad if they wanted to hurt you enough to go through the effort of turning him into a dragon.” Lambert likely would have gone on if Geralt hadn’t tackled him to the, growling and snarling.

“Geralt!” Jaskier roared from the doorway. The witchers froze, looking up from the cobblestone. Lambert, pinned under the white-haired witcher, breathed out a curse, eyes wide. Jaskier was a sight to behold, his pupils had turned to slits in his bright blue eyes, scowling with all his fangs, smoke curling from his mouth and nose. His arms were folded across his chest, pale scales creeping along his wrists and neck shimmering in the afternoon sun.

“You are grown witchers,” Vesemir admonished from behind the bard. “Surely you can settle disputes without resorting to such childish manners.” Jaskier ignored the old witcher as he moved into the courtyard and pulled Geralt away from his brother with little effort.

“Get a hold of yourself, dear Witcher,” Jaskier snapped quietly. “He didn’t say anything wrong and, even if he had, you lot should be above impromptu wrestling matches over something as petty as a vague insult.” He released the wolf folding his arms again.

“You heard what he said?” Geralt frowned.

Jaskier nodded sharply. “I may not have your Witcher hearing, but I can hear a grown man sneering in a courtyard at full volume.” Jaskier shivered. Somewhere else in the courtyard there was a sharp crack followed by Lambert cursing loudly. “Besides, your brother isn’t exactly quiet. Now, can we please get inside before I freeze to death?” Jaskier pressed himself close to the Witcher, letting his anger fade. Geralt smirked a bit, but followed instructions, bringing the bard back to his perch by the fire in the keep. Jaskier was quick to wrap several furs around himself again. “If it gets any colder, I just might try what Vesemir suggested when we first got here. I swear, it’s ridiculous.” He shivered again, despite the furs and the flames. Geralt just shook his head and let the bard curl up against him. The other Witchers kept their distance until supper. Jaskier ate quickly, choosing to return to the fire instead of rambling like usual. Eskel and Lambert took turns insulting each other and telling stories throughout the meal, but, once the bard had curled up by the fire, seemingly asleep, the conversation turned serious.

“I didn’t think he’d be so far,” Eskel admitted, gaze fixed on the lump of furs that hid Jaskier.

“It won’t be long,” Vesemir agreed. “What did you find?”

“Not much that can make this easier, but I got a reason from the damn mage. He claimed that he was married to a dragon that he thought Geralt killed.” Eskel frowned at the White Wolf.

“I don’t kill dragons,” Geralt snapped.

“He said that too. The bastard was in the tower you told me you found Jaskier in. He let me find him. Said a Villentretenmerth told him that he’d messed up. He threw me a notebook then stabbed himself in the neck.” Eskel pulled the notebook from his armor and slid it across the table to Vesemir.

“Who the fuck is Villentretenmerth?” Lambert asked.

“A golden dragon,” Geralt grumbled.

“The bard mentioned a dragon hunt,” Vesemir hummed. He opened the book, thumbing through the pages.

“The only dragon that died was a green one who couldn’t survive the injuries humans inflicted on her. She died protecting her egg. I helped the gold dragon keep the egg safe from those actually hunting a dragon.” Geralt glanced over at his bard, gut twisting as he remembered what else had happened on that damn hunt.

“So, your bard got fucked over for no reason?” Lambert let out a whistle. “No wonder you acted like shit when I pressed.”

“I told you not to, you dick,” Eskel sighed. “But do you ever listen?” Eskel looked at the ceiling as though expecting someone to acknowledge his long-suffering irritation at the youngest Witcher. Before Lambert could snap back or begin throwing food, Vesemir cleared his throat.

“Give this to your bard, Geralt,” the old wolf ordered handing him the notebook. “It will, at the very least, help after the fact.” Geralt nodded, taking the book.

“So, how long do you think he’s got before he’s a full dragon?” Lambert mused, clearly having moved passed Eskel’s taunting. “I mean, he’s already covered in scales and he’s got those eyes.”

“The bard will likely be a full dragon by the end of the week,” Vesemir sighed. “And, until then you pups will help him where you can. We all owe him a debt.” The mentor glared at his students.

“We’ve been setting up the old training yard for him,” Geralt said.

“How big is he gonna get?” Eskel asked, eying the sleeping lump by the fire.

“We don’t know, but it is better to be prepared for him to be bigger,” Vesemir declared. “The problem comes with keeping him warm, as you can see.” He gestured to Jaskier, who they could all hear was still shuddering with cold as he slept. “I want you to bring as many furs and blankets as you can find to the old training room tomorrow. All of you. We are mostly prepared for winter. The bard is now our priority.” The wolves nodded their agreement. Geralt and Jaskier slept by the fire that night, the witcher unwilling to move him from the warmth. In the morning, Geralt stayed still until the bard woke up too. By that point, the sun was already high in the sky and the other witchers had been at their task of gathering for hours.

“You could have moved me,” Jaskier yawned, stretching out, shoving the furs aside. Geralt could see two distinct lumps under his shirt on his back, pulling the shirt tight. Jaskier rolled his shoulders as though he could feel the protrusions.

“You seemed to be warm,” Geralt said. Jaskier leaned back against him, brown hair tickling his chin.

“Hardly,” Jaskier snorted. “I’m never warm these days.” As if to emphasize his point, he shivered, pressing closer. He burned against the witcher like always. “I heard you all talking last night. Did you really send Eskel after the mage?”

“He volunteered.” Geralt shrugged, burying his nose in Jaskier's neck, breathing in his sweet scent. Even with the strong incense that now dominated it, or maybe because of it, Jaskier’s scent was comforting. He smelled like home.

“How kind,” Jaskier muttered. He stifled another yawn before pulling away and forcing Geralt’s head up. “As much as I enjoy the attention, I know you have things to be doing and I don’t want to get you in trouble with Vesemir.” Jaskier turned to press a chaste kiss on his cheek before extricating himself from the nest of fabric. Geralt sighed but let himself be pulled up by the bard. Not as though he could have stopped him. Jaskier was nearly stronger than him now. “What did Vesemir want you to give me?” the bard called over his should, stumbling towards the kitchen.

“A notebook,” Geralt said. Jaskier returned from the kitchen with two chunks of bread. He handed one to the Witcher. Geralt pointed to the book, sitting on the table where he had left it the night before. Jaskier gently ran a claw over the binding.

“Then I suppose I have some reading today.” He smiled tiredly over at his wolf. “Now go on. You know where I’ll be.” He kissed Geralt on the cheek again. Then he took his breakfast and book back to the fireside, sinking into the furs and blankets once again. Geralt went to join his brothers in the old train yard. It was an enclosed courtyard, paved in stone. All of the training gear had been removed and replaced with carpets dragged from all over the crumbling keep. Lambert had gathered all the unused pillows and bedding in one corner of the yard that was more rounded than the others. Eskel had laid out furs over the bedding. For all intents and purposes, the witchers were making a nest for the bard. Somewhere he would be safe and warm when he finished changing. Vesemir supervised the wolves, barking orders and sending them off into the keep where they may find more. He didn’t hesitate to include Geralt in the instructions. Jaskier was already asleep again when the witchers sought lunch.

“It takes a lot of energy,” Vesemir said, noting the concern in the White Wolf’s eyes. “He may not be awake for most of it.”

“Probably for the best,” Eskel mused, no doubt remembering the screams that often echoed through the keep when the trials were administered. Likely remembering his own screams as well. “What I read in that book said he should be knocked out cold for the worst part. Didn’t say how long that would last though.” Jaskier curled in on himself, letting out a groan, drawing attention to him.

“Take him to the training yard,” Vesemir ordered. Geralt dragged the bard up, finding him harder to lift than ever before. Even so, he carried his lover through the keep as gently as he could, laying him in the soft nest. Jaskier didn’t react to him at all. His claws dug into his sides, tearing his shirt and scraping the hard scales underneath. The protrusions looked more like the numbs of wings stretching out of his spine at strange angles. Pained growls and groans fell from the bard’s mouth. Geralt sat with him, muttering gently, trying his best to ease the bard’s pain. They stay there together for the next few days as Jaskier slowly finishes his change into a dragon. He sleeps through most of it, as expected, and when he’s awake, he’s not fully aware. Geralt never leaves him. Not sleeping, only meditating for small intervals. His brothers bring him food, which he only eats because he knows what Jaskier would say. Those are the only times he sees the other wolves. It had proved wise to prepare a large space since Jaskier’s dragon form was nearly as big as Borch’s. The light gold scales were just as pale as they had been when they first appeared, nearly white in the firelight. His wings wrapped around his body still curled tightly on itself like a cat.

Even after the changes are finished, Jaskier didn’t wake up for nearly three days. When he did, it was a dramatic thing. His wings stretched towards the ceiling, spreading across the whole of the space. Geralt was jolted out of his meditation by the low growling sound that came from the dragon’s throat. Large blue eyes stared back at him beyond a golden snout. Jaskier pressed his muzzle gently into the Witcher’s chest, lowering his wings and flopping back down on his belly. Geralt hesitantly brought his hands up to run over the smooth scales. Another low sound rumbled out of the dragon. A deep purr that shook his whole body. Geralt smiled as Jaskier resting his head in his lap. “Welcome back, bard,” he said fondly. Jaskier nuzzled closer in response, managing to be remarkably mindful of his new size. Geralt pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “I think it suits you.” Jaskier let out a huff of hot air, blue eyes rolling as they closed.

When Eskel came in later with dinner, Jaskier was awake again. He made a chittering noise of joy when his movement caused the scarred witcher to jump. “Nice to see you awake,” Eskel chuckled when he recovered from the shock. Jaskier leaned down to let the other witcher run his hands over one of his wings, something that made the dragon shudder. “We’ll get you something to eat soon.” Eskel looked over at his brother, still sitting in the corner. Geralt acknowledged him with a nod. “Has he slept yet?” Eskel asked the dragon conspiratorially. Jaskier let out a gentle growl, glaring at his witcher. Even as a dragon, his face was so expressive, it wasn’t hard to tell what he was feeling at any given moment. The dragon padded over to him and let out a puff of smoke in his face. Geralt could almost hear Jaskier reprimanding him for not taking care of himself. Jaskier gently nudged his witcher over to the mound of beds and wrapped around him. He covered them with a wing, sealing in the warmth. Jaskier purred again when Geralt relaxed in his hold.

“All right Jaskier,” Geralt mumbled. He let himself drift off to sleep, safe and warm in his lover's embrace. Several days, and several deer, later, all of the Witchers gathered just outside the dragon’s nest. It had entertained Geralt to no end when, after waking, Jaskier had started shoving the beds and blankets around to form a round nest in the corner, just big enough for him to curl up in. Jaskier had looked so confused when Geralt chuckled at him apparently unaware of what, exactly, he was doing. The other Witchers stayed outside the mound of furs, unsure of how the dragon would react to others in his nest. Vesemir had decided that it was time for Jaskier to try to change back. Geralt was near him, watching as every muscle tensed in focus, scales shimmering as they faded, and the bard shrank to his usual size. He was sweating and breathing heavily from the effort, but he was there looking the same as always. He sheepishly wrapped himself in one of the many furs, covering himself.

“That went surprisingly well,” he mumbled. Geralt’s heart sped up at the sound of his voice. Jaskier looked over at him with an odd look on his face. “And that will take some getting used to.”

“Good job, bard,” Eskel said. He smiled over the barrier of bedding. Jaskier stumbled forward, making his way out of the nest. Geralt moved closer, pressing a hand to his lower back to steady him.

“Thank you, my friend.” Jaskier smiled at them. His teeth looked almost normal, his incisors still sharp fangs. His blue eyes glinted joyously, even as tired as he looked. “I’m just glad that I have opposable thumbs again. Though I have to say, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. And I am immeasurably grateful that I’m no longer cold. Now, if you lovely gentlemen will excuse me, I believe I need to put on some more, ah, appropriate attire.”

Lambert smirked wickedly. “And rob us of the show?” Vesemir cuffed the young witcher on the back of his head.

“Ignore him,” Geralt growled, but Jaskier just laughed lightly.

“I’ve never seen such an eager puppy,” the bard remarked. Eskel barked out a laugh while Lambert’s mouth opened in outrage. The bard winked at Lambert but leaned into Geralt a bit.

“Leave it, Lambert,” Vesemir ordered, but even the old wolf had a smirk on his face as Geralt helped the bard to his room. Once they were without an audience, the white-haired Witcher wrapped the bard in a hug, breathing in his scent. Jaskier didn’t seem to mind, pressing himself as close as he could. He ran his fingers through the other’s hair, blunt nails running across his scalp. Geralt let his hands wander feeling soft skin shiver under his palms.

“Oh gods,” Jaskier breathed.

“Hmm?” Geralt leaned back, raising an eyebrow.

“After feeling through scales for so long, everything is so much more sensitive.”

“Is that what you meant?”

“What I meant by what, dear Witcher?” Jaskier pressed their foreheads together gently. One of his hands drifted down Geralt’s arm, while the other rested firmly on his neck.

“Getting used to something,” Geralt mumbled. He leaned forward, stealing a kiss.

“Ah, that,” Jaskier chuckled. “You know, most animals have better senses than humans. When I was a dragon, I could hear and smell and see so much more than I ever have before. I was under the impression that it would stop when I changed back, but it seems it hasn’t. Your heartbeat is incredibly slow, love, but I could hear it speed up a little. I can still hear it.” He pressed his palm to Geralt’s chest. “I can smell you. Underneath everything.” Jaskier leaned in, breathing in deeply and kissing the pulse point at the base of the Witcher’s neck. “You smell like leather and Roach and pine trees. Under the onions.” Jaskier’s body is warm against his, but not burning anymore. “Is this how you feel? With your Witchery senses?” He trailed kisses up the Witcher’s neck, tracing his chin. Geralt hummed, turning into the kiss and taking soft lips with his own. Jaskier purred, his whole body vibrating with the noise. He jerked back and the rumble stopped.

Geralt smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Jaskier?”

“Fuck, Geralt. I just purred,” Jaskier said.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You’ve been purring for days, Jask.”

“Not as a human.”

Geralt pulled Jaskier back into his arms. “Jaskier,” he sighed. “I know you don’t want to think about it, but you aren’t human anymore. Even when you look human, you’re still a dragon.”

“I know.” Jaskier’s voice shook. “I know, it’s just a lot. I mean, what else could be different?” He let out a dry laugh. “I’ve said that more in the last two months than I ever have before. I just thought that being able to change into a-a human form meant that it would be my form. The version of me I’m used to. Now I don’t know what is happening and, after the purring and the fucking _nesting_ , I’m not sure I want to.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier nodded against him.

Winter at Kaer Morhen that year was odd. There was very little training going on, and the little that happened often happened on their own. That year Jaskier took up all of their time. Under Vesemir’s urging, Jaskier alternated his form once a week, equally dividing his time between bard and dragon. As a dragon, Jaskier stayed in his nest in the training yard much of the time. The wolves would take turns spending company with him, though Geralt was the only one who would come alone. The other wolves paired off to visit the dragon. Geralt knew that his brothers and mentor spent most of their visits talking to Jaskier, something that the troubadour had yet to figure out how to do in his draconic form. When Jaskier wasn’t in his nest, he was flying. Or rather, learning how to fly. It was appeared to be mostly instinctual, but it took several escapades for Jaskier to learn his limits. One such escapade had ended up with his having to change into a human to escape from a tangle of tree limbs. After that, he had been more careful about how he low he was flying. When he was flying, all four wolves would sit and watch him. It was a beautiful thing to witness a dragon in flight, shimmering in the sunlight, twisting through the clouds.

As a bard, Jaskier passed much of the time composing and practicing by the main fire. During those times the Witchers all gave him a wide berth, taking care of the chores. When he’d get bored, Geralt would often find the bard wandering the keep. Sometimes he’d find Jaskier in the library, nose buried in one of the dusty tomes. Nights were easier with the bard in his human form. Geralt and Jaskier spent those nights getting familiar with each other’s bodies. By morning both Witcher and dragon would be looking well fucked, sporting bite marks and bruises. Often Geralt had the lion’s share of the marks since Jaskier seemed to get some kind of possessive enjoyment from it. To be fair, the possessive nature went both ways.

The possessiveness came from being a dragon, according to the Vesemir. The standing theory was the bard had most if not all of the instinctual nature of a dragon. The older witcher warned that it would likely get worse once they were away from the safety of the keep. Jaskier hadn’t been concerned by the information. He’s merely laughed it off claiming that after the nesting nothing could bother him. Even when he’d been warned of the aggressive nature dragons had when their mates were threatened. The only instinct that bothered him was the hoarding.

“You blew smoke the last time someone threatened me, and we weren’t even together yet,” Geralt sighed one night late in the winter. Wolves and bard were all lounging in the main room. Vesemir sat near the fire watching his pups. Eskel and Lambert were losing a game a Gwent to the bard. Jaskier was sitting in Geralt’s lap, curled against him.

“I’ve always had a temper, my dear,” Jaskier said with a wicked smile. “But I’m a traveling bard. I live on the road, just like you lot. I can’t afford to hoard things. I can’t carry a hoard with me on the path. Nor do I like the idea of hiding things away in a cave or a keep.”

“Dragon hoards do not have to be physical items,” Vesemir offered. “I cannot speak with much authority on the matter, but logic would suggest that those who hoarded the physical, like gold or jewels, were bigger targets. It would stand to reason that the instinct could be managed with the non-physical.”

Lambert snorted. “Not as much fun as hoarding gold though.”

“You want to carry that much gold around on the path?” Eskel said, kicking the young witcher under the table.

“I’m not the one who’s gotta figure it out.” Lambert rolled his eyes. “The bard is.”

“The bard has a name,” Jaskier snapped without much heat. Trading verbal jabs was a marker of their friendship, and the bard had practice from dealing with Yennefer. “Perhaps if you paid attention to that sort of thing, you wouldn’t be losing so badly right now.”

“I’m only losing ‘cause you cheat.”

“I don’t cheat. I win.” Jaskier smiled broadly, doing exactly that while the two witchers groaned.

“I warned you,” Geralt mumbled.

“Yeah you did, but maybe next time say he cheats,” Eskel said. Geralt shrugged. “Whatever. Maybe Jaskier can hoard Gwent cards.”

“Why would I need to?” Jaskier snorted. “I already win easily enough with the cards I’ve got. Then again, I don’t suppose I get to pick my hoard.”

“If you do, what would you choose?” Eskel asked, gathering his cards. “I’d keep in mind that dragons are pretty damn possessive of their hoards.”

“That’s easy. If I could choose my hoard, I’d chose stories and songs.”

“Interesting choice, bard,” Lambert mused. “Hard to steal those.”

“It can be done, but most bards know better than to take songs from another.” Jaskier's voice was suddenly cold and Geralt knew where the conversation was headed.

Lambert caught onto the bard’s tone too. “What happened, bard? Somebody steal your song?” Jaskier’s eyes flashed dangerously, briefly having slit pupils.

“Only one bard would be so utterly pathetic as to steal songs and it is that talentless hack, Valdo Marx,” Jaskier growled. He emphasized his words with a huff of smoke.

“He once wished for Marx to drop dead,” Geralt said.

“Damn. How’d he do it?” Eskel asked.

“He teaches at Oxenfurt and uses composition assignments from the students, claiming them as his own. Then he performs them in highly public spaces, so even if you try to reclaim your work, no one believes you. He took three of my songs before I graduated. I suppose I should feel a little proud, knowing that my songs were good enough to steal thrice. I don’t though. He has lied and stolen songs for twenty years using a position he only has because his father is one of the school’s biggest financial supporters. I, on the other hand, earned my renown through hard work and talent. I even changed my name to prove that I was good enough to become a Master Bard on my own.” Jaskier smiled proudly, his fangs looking a little sharper than normal. Geralt rolled his eyes and pulled the bard back against him, feeling the burning heat fade as his lover calmed down.

“You mean your name isn’t Jaskier?” Eskel frowned.

“My dear friend, of course, it is. It’s just not the name I was given. Names are gifts, after all, and one is not required to accept a gift that doesn’t fit.” Jaskier smiled again.

“So what’s your given name, bard?” Lambert asked.

“Why would I bother telling you? You don’t even use my name _now_ ,” Jaskier snarked. Lambert bared his teeth, but the dragon just smirked.

“We’re curious, bard,” Vesemir said. The old wolf looked over at his pups with a glint in his eyes.

“Ah well, how can I refuse you?” Jaskier sighed dramatically. He pulled himself to his feet and out of Geralt’s grasp. “I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, bard to the White Wolf.” Jaskier sent his witcher a wink, before dropping into a deep bow in perfect form. “But I prefer Jaskier.” He smiled broadly at the old wolf. Then he sat down, forcing himself back into Geralt’s arms. Geralt rolled his eyes but let Jaskier settle against him again.

“A viscount? You could be living comfortably in some manor, but instead, you travel around with that idiot, sleeping on the ground and running from monsters?” Eskel gestured to Geralt.

“There aren’t any stories worth hearing at court. No heroics or adventures and one can only write so many songs about court gossip before wanting to run away. I won’t deny that I enjoy court every once in a while, but I’d rather suffer through the dangers and annoyances of the road than be place in a gilded cage. I made that decision decades ago. My sister takes care of the lands while I’m traveling. I stop by every few years to check-in, but, once her son is of age, I’ll renounce my title and he can have it.” Jaskier shrugged as best he could in Geralt’s hold. “It’s much more fun to travel. There are stories on the road.”

“I think you were hoarding those long before you were a dragon,” Lambert said.

“Then perhaps I already have a hoard and have nothing to worry about,” Jaskier chuckled. The wind howled outside the keep as they settled into a comfortable silence.

Spring came just a few weeks later, and the wolves of Kaer Morhen returned to the path. The bard followed the White Wolf down the path, singing and playing. Everything was the same as every spring before. The Dragon of Kaer Morhen followed Geralt of Rivia, his mate and beloved, back into the world. Everything was different than ever before. And their adventure began anew.

**Author's Note:**

> If y'all really like this, I may write more about Jask getting used to the Dragon instincts in the real world. 
> 
> Like defending Geralt and threatening Valdo and making a nest in an inn.  
> Jask falling in love with Ciri and dealing with the dragon parenting instincts.  
> Maybe even a Yenn & Jask bonding scene. 
> 
> Just, you know, let me know if that's what you want. 
> 
> I can't sleep anyway, so I may as well write.


End file.
